Forty-four years. As reckoned in surface time, that is how long has passed since I became the Runethane of Brightdeep and its surrounding caverns and towns. And although it has been a fairly peaceful four decades, that is not to say they have been uneventful.

The city has been expanded upward. New dwellings and commercial districts have been dug out adjacent to the Mushroom Basket, which has itself been almost entirely civilized and cleared. Where once were wild, deadly forests, now sprawl farmsteads. Those wild places that remain have been sealed off with doors forged by members of my own guild.

Trade thrives. Food and ore go up and other goods come down. I keep the taxes low, to keep the caravaners happy. Other realms have increased theirs, trying to concentrate money and power in the face of the oncoming war, and I saw an opportunity. My dwarves grow rich, and my personal cut remains enough all the same.

Our most important partners in business are the humans of Hyvaen. In recognition of Jaemes and Alae's sacrifices, I offered them generous terms on several trade deals, and they accepted happily. Cured surface meats and alcohol brewed from strange surface plants proved popular as soon as they arrived and remain so even now. In return, the humans are glad of our metal—processed to standards human metalworkers could never hope to match.

It's not an uncommon sight to see a group of human traders, on a brief break from their travels down, marveling at the well-lit streets of the city. Often they wish to go even deeper, and tour the old fort, but it is closed off. The magma that filled the city below has made it too hot for anyone not clad in tungsten armor. It is uninhabitable.

I have traveled myself, too, during these intervening years. I've made a few trips to Allabrast—always rushed affairs, unfortunately, and I still haven't been able to visit the old guildhall. I've traveled to other realms also: Runethane Ilthik, directly above, has played host to me several times, and I've even gone so far afield as Runethane Ytith's city of Jade and Copper.

That was serious business—a council with Runeking Bolotorok who rules the realms to our south, at war with his own enemies, rumored to be allies of hated Uthrarzak.

The war between Ulrike and Uthrarzak is pulling in the surrounding powers also. The entire underworld is about erupt into flames. Yet he has not begun his march just yet. His dwarves are still forging, preparing.

As am I. This hour, as I often do though not enough, I work on my craft. The true steel shudders as I beat it. Sparks fly, each shaped like a tiny dagger. Heat and light flash over the anvil. My hammer, part-composed of true metal itself, vibrates in my hand after each stroke.

The blade is taking shape millimeter by millimeter. At nine parts in ten true, the steel is difficult to work indeed. It's more akin to tungsten than titanium, needing force rather than subtlety, and the more I work it, the more it resists me. It usually takes long-hours of hammering before any visible change to the shape of the piece can be seen.

To create great crafts truly does take immense time. I have been working on this blade for close to a year already. Not constantly, of course, since my duties as ruler keep me busy. Yet I can now well understand how it took Runethane Thanerzak more than a century to forge his Starcleaver.

At least my armor for the war is ready. It's hung on the stand behind me, a suit of all-covering steel plates, all of which are more than half-degree in purity. It took me the better part of a decade to finish, and it was a decade well-spent.

My efforts before then met with varying success. The true metal rebelled against me as it never has before. My arms and hands are thick with burns, after those many trials. I failed with it many times, especially when trying to make the subtle curves that are now perfected on my latest piece.

I experimented with many metals—bronze too, even, though I could never get the hang of it. And I have made runes from true metal too, and experimenting with that led to more failures than anything else. One must create them perfectly, and while my hands are up to the task, the unevenness in the wire has let me down many times.

In short, although outside has been peace, within my forge has been a kind of war. Me against metal, struggling to master it.

And I continue to struggle this hour, trying to flatten out the edges just a little further. An ache builds in my muscles, and it grows more intense, until my whole right shoulder is immovable with cramps. I grunt and put the hammer down, dissatisfied.

My amulet has been calm as of late. It isn't giving me the vitality I need—it's bored, I think. I have to take more time to recover than I used to. I worry that I'm getting soft, sometimes.

I exit my forge—a grand affair—and move out into the guildhall. This is another part of the city that's been expanded. The main hall is much wider now, and from it, corridors lead to well-equipped forges and offices, their shelves heavy with many official documents.

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I walk through, greeting those I pass, and into the outer hall, where all citizens are permitted to enter for an audience with me.

It's massive. I have had every part of it designed to look imposing. The pillars are stone trees taken from the petrified forest, and are a wonder of the city. Upon the walls are carved scenes from my battles—my slaying of the abyssal salamander, my battles against the lava trolls with Hayhek, my fights against Runethane Broderick's forces, too.

The fighting against the white jelly is depicted on white marble, and beside it, on darker stone, the doomed expedition of Runethane Yurok is shown. Then, the killing of Fjalar. The slaying of the black dragon is depicted in enormous scale, as are our battles under the magma against the demons and my final duel against Vanerak.

The greatest of the pieces, though, shows our defeat of the two sorcerers below. I am depicted alongside Nthazes, and Runethane Halmak is lying behind. No one who looks on this can doubt my authority of Runethane—that the rank was fairly passed to me is the message of the piece.

Alae is given a prominent position, and there are a couple carvings of Jaemes, too. The humans who come down always marvel at this. Rarely are their kind given so much respect from us, least of all from a Runethane—and the Runeforger, at that.

My powers are known to all, now. Believed by all, perhaps not—and certainly not further afield, in distant kingdoms. But they are known of, and so am I. Few Runethanes have ever gained so much fame as I have.

But I try not to let it get to my head, and do my best to treat my subjects fairly. I climb the stairs to my throne—it's a great steel construction, enruned with a poem of light and fire, designed and built by Ithis—and sit down to listen to those who have come to me with their problems.

I listen to each and every one, and no matter their rank, all must wait for their turn fairly. The poorest farmer comes before even a runeknight trader in plates of gold, should the former arrive first. Of course, I cannot take action for every little complaint, but a junior runeknight records everything, and when patterns start to emerge—growing crop-failures, increased troll or dithyok attacks, or criminal conspiracies—my replies are swift and decisive. And I lead from the front, as often as I can.

I am not the kind of Runethane who sits in the forge and lets his realm go to waste around him. I do not send anyone into a battle I wouldn't enter myself. I am not Yurok, nor Vanerak. And yes, I may lose my temper on occasion, and perhaps not every crime is deserving of beheading—but all in all, I think I am a good ruler. I am just, courageous, and saner than most Runethanes one could care to name, too.

Kind, too. I have outlawed the whipping of miners.

Hour by hour, the line of supplicants shortens. I resist the urge to call an end to this and return to the forge. Patience in all things—that is how a runeknight must be, and a Runethane especially.

Several short-hours pass, and now there are only a few left. The farmers and caravaners are troubled.

"Too many trolls," I mutter. "Tell Hayhek that we'll have to organize another campaign."

A junior runeknight rushes off.

The final complaint is about unfair trade practices. The alleged culprits are one particular guild that's been causing me a few problems, and so I decide to have a trial held for their guildmaster—a trial by forging. Those are always a worthwhile event for the city's runeknights to witness, especially when two fairly senior dwarves are pitted against one another. A lot can be learned, and rarely do I have the loser executed, so long as he or she put up a good performance.

The complainant leaves, thanking me. Now it's time for a meal and some sleep, and then another good long-hour of forging. I stand up from my throne and stretch out my stiff arms. I crack my shoulder. I will have something particularly vital cooked, I think. Yes—one of those surface buffalo. I think one or two still haven't been slaughtered yet. And some wine to wash it down, the stuff made from grapes raised under the sun.

Being Runethane comes with great privileges as well as great responsibilities. I can hardly imagine that I used to live in caves, scraping fungus and crawling things from the walls to sustain myself. Those days are long gone.

The sound of metallic footsteps makes me turn. I see who it is, and a heavy weight, like that of a ball of lead, seems to sink in my stomach. Marching quickly through my hall is a figure all in gold: Elanak, or Ulanak, or one of the other automatons of our Runeking.

I sit back down, worrying. She's only returned twice since I became Runethane, and each time I've been called away because of it. Anything less serious is communicated by letter—and by the way she's hurrying, I think her message this hour is more serious than anything yet.

Could it be...? No, surely not. We still have a few more years left. Our foe can't be ready—I haven't finished my new spear yet.

She climbs the stairs quickly, and when she speaks, from her mouth comes the voice of my Runeking.

"Runeking Uthrarzak's forces are mustering. Four-fifths of your forces are to relocate to Allabrast. The war is here, Runethane Zathar. Ready yourself."

"Four-fifths—" I begin, shocked.

"You are not to argue with me. We are to be united, and strike one crushing blow. More details will be worked out at the grand council. Ready your forces, Zathar. Now."

"Now? We cannot finish our crafts?"

"You can finish them in Allabrast. Forges will be provided."

"Good ones?"

"Don't try my patience, Zathar!"

I bow, suddenly worried, the weight of his words beginning to crash down on me. "I apologize, my Runeking."

"Good. Ulanak will stay to make sure everything is happening with speed. Her voice is mine, even when it is not. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my Runeking. But—is he really marching so fast?"

"He may be. Our information is imperfect. So every word we exchange while you sit, is a waste of time. The time for patience is at an end, Zathar. Stand up and get to work!"

I leap from my throne. I am angry, scared, offended—he has never spoken to me like this before. As a rule, he does not speak to any of his Runethanes like this, and certainly not in their own realms. He's rattled, badly rattled. Are hated Uthrarzak's forces really so vast and powerful? Could our allies to the south have fallen already, perhaps? Or maybe Runeking Talamak has decided to ally with our foe after all.

There will be no feast tonight. No drinking either. Peace has come to an end, and before schedule. I thought we had a few more years left, at least. My ruby starts to heat up once more, and that is the surest sign of all that this is no nightmare.

War is here.

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